ending in unequal
combat on the Cualnge Cattle-spoil, even against Calatin Dana ('the Bold')
with his seven and twenty[a] sons, and against Glass son of Delga, his
grandson, [4]and at the last against Ferdiad son of Daman.[4]

[1-1] YBL. 43b, 38-39.

[2-2] YBL. 43b, 39-40.

[3-3] Stowe.

[a] 'Twelve,' YBL. 43b, 41.

[4-4] Stowe.

[5]It is then that Sualtaim said[5]: "Whate'er it be, [6]this that I
hear[6] from afar," quoth Sualtaim, "it is the sky that bursts or the sea
that ebbs or the earth that quakes, or is it the distress of my son
overmatched in the strife on the Driving of the Kine of Cualnge?"

[5-5] Stowe and YBL. 43b, 42.

[6-6] Stowe.

In that, indeed, Sualtaim spoke true. And he went to learn all after a
while, without hastening on his way. And when Sualtaim was come to where
[7]his son[7] Cuchulain was [8]and found him covered with wounds and bloody
gashes and many stabs,[8] Sualtaim began to moan and lament [9]for
Cuchulain.[9]

[7-7] YBL. 43b, 46.

[8-8] Stowe.

[9-9] Stowe.

[W.4695.] Forsooth Cuchulain deemed it neither an honour nor glory that
Sualtaim should bemoan and lament him, for Cuchulain knew that, wounded and
injured though he was, Sualtaim would not be [1]the man[1] to avenge his
wrong. For such was Sualtaim: He was no mean warrior and he was no mighty
warrior, but only a good, worthy man was he. "Come, my father Sualtaim,"
said Cuchulain; [2]"cease thy sighing and mourning for me, and[2] do thou
go to Emain [3]Macha[3] to the men of Ulster and tell them to come now to
have a care for their droves, for no longer am I able to protect them in
the gaps and passes of the land of Conalle Murthemni. All alone am I
against four of the five grand provinces of Erin from Monday at Summer's
end till the beginning of Spring, every day slaying a man on a ford and a
hundred warriors every night. Fair fight is not granted me nor single
combat, and no [LL.fo.93b.] one comes to aid me nor to succour. [4]And such
is the measure of my wounds and my sores that I cannot bear my garments or
my clothing to touch my skin, so that[4] spancel-hoops hold my cloak over
me. Dry tufts of grass are stuffed in my wounds. [5]There is not the space
of a needle's point from my crown to my sole without wound or sore, and[5]
there is not a single hair [6]on my body[6] from my crown to my sole
whereon the point of a needle could stand, without a drop of deep-red blood
on